They wind up staying in the bunker for several days while Peter's ankle mends. Each day is spent much like the last; Netherlands is always awake before either of them and leaves to the surface to go scavenging while Denmark stays behind with Peter and plays games with him. They tear several pages out of the sketchbook to make a shoddy deck of cards and Denmark teaches him how to play rummy and black jack, neither of which works very well given that they can see the imprint of the numbers through the paper. But they preserver and by the end of several days, Denmark begrudgingly admits that Peter has surpassed him in skill and offers to teach him more swears as a reward, a prize that Peter puts on hold, not wanting to trip over his own mouth again with Denmark's bizarre way of speaking.

"It's too hard," he tells him. "Teach me how to say something dirty in a language that actually makes sense."

He spends over an hour trying to flop through old Norse before he realizes that Denmark is toying with him and he throws a wadded up ball of paper at his head and demands to know what 'perkele' means. Denmark tells him it means 'I love Sweden' in Finnish and encourages him to use the word frequently whenever they reunite with the others.

Things remain mostly uneventful. Netherlands returns around the same time each day, empty handed every time, and gives them a run down of what he has seen for the day; a newly fallen tree here, prints in the ash there. He doesn't talk much when they are all together, but Peter catches him and Denmark talking quietly during odd hours of the night when they think he is asleep, trading information based on their travels and the horrors that they have encountered. By pretending to slumber, he learns that Switzerland has fallen into chaos and that the small surviving society there has completely dissolved into violence and human butchery, people stalking each other for resources and food, regardless of where it comes from, and have begun a slow spread into Austria and southern Germany.

"Not far from where we started," Denmark tells Netherlands. "They're literally right behind us."

Sealand tries not to listen too deeply to their conversations. It scares him too much to really know, but curiosity has always been his weakness and, no matter how hard he tries, he always manages to keep one ear trained on them, catching terrible stories every night. Waterlogged bodies in Croatia. Cannibals in Hungary. Seemingly endless sink holes in Slovenia.

Complete silence in Belgium.

He tries to keep his head buried in the pillows on the third night after a particularly dark story about Denmark finding a bunker full of swollen bodies in Naples. It reminds him too much of the woman that cared for him when he first woke up. He doesn't want to know about the smell or how long it took Denmark to bury each of them; it's too gruesome, too real, and too much to think about. He turns over and starts to cover his ears, but a single word in their soft conversation immediately grabs his attention.

France.

"Ran into France a few months ago," Netherlands tells him over the edge of his cup. "They were on their way to a shelter in Leipzig."

The legs of Denmark's chair clack loudly against the floor when he lurches forward to catch his dropped coffee. "What? France? He's okay?"

Netherlands shrugs. "He's alive."

Denmark wipes the spilled drink off of the front of his coat. "How was he? Were you able to talk to him at all?"

"He doesn't have any arms anymore. He's got most of the left one, but the right one's gone at the shoulder." He sips his water. "He was with Germany and England. Buncha civilians too."

Denmark sags in relief. "Oh shit, that's such a relief. They're still okay?"

"Germany's doing all right. Still an OCD tight-ass, anyhow. England doesn't talk much on account of the heat from before, but that's pretty much expected."

"Heat? What do you mean?"

Netherlands raises a brow. "You know how if you ever fall into a fire, you're not supposed to gasp?"

"Yeah?"

"Same thing applies to the end of the world."

"Oh."

Jan sets his empty cup down and stretches. "Anyway, they wouldn't stay long. Too many sick people to dawdle. They had at least a dozen people with them."

"Ah. Were…" Denmark pauses and glances over at Peter who is still feigning sleep. "Were they looking for anyone by chance?"

"You mean the kid?"

"He has a name you know."

He rolls his eyes. "You mean Peter?"

"Yeah."

Netherlands' stare flits over to Peter's prone form. "The only people they asked me about were Prussia and Spain."

"They didn't mention him at all?"

"No."

Their conversation continues late into the night, the two of them completely unaware of the conflicting tears on Peter's face.

On the morning of the fourth day, Denmark exudes an astounding burst of perceptiveness and notices how quiet Sealand has been all morning. He pauses from his task of repairing a tear in his jacket long enough to sit down in front of him, taking his hands and peering at him in concern, his mouth turned down in a scowl when Peter refuses to meet his gaze.

"What's the matter?" He asks him gently. "You've been weird all day. Does your ankle hurt?"

"No." He tries to pull his hands free of Denmark's, but the stubborn Dane keeps his fingers locked solid with his own. "I'm okay."

"No you aren't."

"Yes I am."

"No you aren't."

Peter glares at him. "You argue like a little kid."

"It's only fair when I'm arguing with a little kid."

"I'm not a little kid!"

Denmark sighs and glowers at him. "Then stop pouting like a little kid and tell me what's wrong. I can't make you feel better if I don't know what's bothering you."

Peter bites his lip. "I don't need anyone to make me feel better."

"Peter…"

"I heard you and Netherlands talking about England and France last night," he blurts. He digs his fingers into Denmark's hands and looks at the floor, his face heated an emotion that is too sad to be anger and too lasting to be embarrassment. "I just thought…" he can feel the heat rising to his eyes. "Arthur's not even looking for me."

Denmark's expression softens when Peter trails off into indignant sniffling and reaches a hand out to rub the back of his head, settling on the back of his neck and pulling him into a hug at the first sign of tears. He doesn't say anything; he just pulls him into his lap and wraps him up, patient and quiet while Sealand cries into his shoulder, small hands fisted into the front of his shirt as he trembles his way through the fit he has been fighting all morning. He's vaguely aware of Denmark's rough hands stroking his hair, but it is hardly a comfort when it only reminds him of how much smaller England's hands were and how he never did anything like this when Peter was upset. He never used to hate England- he just resented him for never acknowledging him. He never complained about the lack of familial connections because he never wanted Arthur to be any sort of caretaker, even in the fatherly sense. He didn't mind that Arthur was never really there because he at least knew that, in his own way, he still cared enough to occasionally write him a letter or present him with a birthday gift or stop by for a visit between meetings.

But this is different.

"He doesn't even care…" he sobs. "I could be dead and he doesn't care."

Denmark presses his cheek to the top of his head and shushes him. "Peter, that's not true and you know it."

"T-then how come he isn't looking for me? He's looking for Spain and Prussia so how come-" He cuts himself off with an ill-timed cough and doesn't bother picking the sentence back up.

"I don't know what he's thinking," Denmark murmurs into his hair. "Someone might have told him they saw you dead or maybe he's just still too stubborn to admit that he's worried about you. But none of that means he doesn't care." He draws back enough to run his thumb over Peter's cheekbone, pushing the tracks of tears away. "The important thing is that he's okay and we know he's somewhere in Leipzig. Leipzig is on our way and we'll check every bunker we find as we go. And then you can ask him yourself." He catches Peter's chin and gently lifts his face to look at him. "And if he isn't happy to see you, I promise to personally drag him out into the ash so that you can beat the hell out of him." He stares at him seriously. "Okay?"

Peter sniffs and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. He still doesn't trust himself to talk so he offers Denmark a shaky nod, which appeases the older man enough to smile. He claps his shoulder just hard enough to jostle him and sits him back onto the bed.

"Good. Now come on," he gets to his feet to retrieve their awkward deck of cards. "You can whoop my ass at blackjack again."

Netherlands returns much later than usual that night and bothers with no pleasantries when he arrives. He throws his coat onto the table, barely missing their game, and heads straight for the bed.

"We're leaving tomorrow," he tells them. His voice is flat and he doesn't even look at them. "Make sure you're packed and ready to go by dawn."

Denmark and Sealand exchange a confused glance and Denmark gets out of his seat to follow him to the mattress. "What's the rush?"

"People are getting closer. We need to get a move on." He yanks the covers up over his shoulders and turns over. "This is the last night you get a bed. Enjoy it."

He ends the conversation there by stuffing his head under the blankets and deflating with an exhausted sigh that leaves Denmark standing with a clueless expression on his face while Peter just blinks at them both. Denmark shrugs and picks up their backpack from under the card table.

"I guess we're leaving in the morning." He starts to place canned goods into the bag along with Peter's sketchbook and their map. "If your ankle isn't up to it, I can carry you."

"I think it's okay," Peter slides to the floor to illustrate his point and begins collecting his belongings as well. "Do you think he packed already?"

"Probably. He's always been the kinda guy who likes to be prepared."

Peter nods. "You know him pretty well, huh?"

"Oh yeah, he and I go way back." Denmark laughs and tosses Peter his newly hemmed jacket. "We've fought each other, we've fought together. We actually wrote to each other during the Second World War when neither of us was allowed to talk to our families. After all the bullshit, though, we mostly just hung out a lot." He grins. "He's the one guy I know who likes bicycles as much as I do."

"Norway said that you guys went camping a lot."

He nods. "We did. We used to take our bikes out into the woods a few times a month to just go relax."

"You mean get high, right?"

Denmark whirls on him, a thoroughly horrified look plastered to every inch of his face. "Who told you that?"

"No one. So, I'm right then?"

Denmark rolls his eyes. "All right, fine, yes, we occasionally may have shared a bag of recreational drugs." He points at him. "But that was rare. It was mostly just beer and cigarettes over a campfire. Drugs are bad, got it?"

Peter grins. "I don't think I could find any now even if I wanted to."

Denmark ponders that for a moment, seemingly satisfied with his answer, before turning his head to peer over at Netherlands, checking if he's still up by tossing a crumple of used paper at him. It bounces off of his shoulders and when it elicits no reaction, Denmark waves Peter in close.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Peter's eyebrows raise and he nods. "Okay."

Denmark glances back at Jan one more time and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a plastic film canister. "I found this about a week before I found you." He flips the cap off with his thumb and shakes the contents out into his hand. "I was saving it just in case I ever found him."

In his palm, half of an unfiltered cigarette sits in nearly pristine condition.

"I'm going to give it to him once we get out of here. Like a surprise."

Peter stares at him. "That's a weird present."

"Oh, be quiet." He carefully places the cigarette back into the canister. "A present is a present. I just want him to know that I'm happy he's coming with us."

"I think he knows." Peter watches him tuck the container back into his pocket. "You've kind of been all over him."

"Have not."

"Have too."

"Name on instance."

"Last night. You guys were snuggling."

Denmark's face turns an unflattering shade of red and he grabs Peter by the waist and tosses him into the bed.

"Go to sleep."

Morning comes too quickly.

Peter wakes to Netherlands' rough hands shaking his shoulders and tugging the covers off of him and Denmark both, muttering around his plastic straw at them to get up. Denmark manages a bleary confirmation of consciousness, but Jan doesn't buy it and hauls him upright by the collar of his shirt.

"Get your coats," he tells them. "We're going now."

Denmark staggers to his feet and yawns. "Hold your horses, man, shit." He scrubs a hand through his hair and nudges Peter over. "The mess up there will still be there in five minutes. C'mon kiddo, time to get up."

Peter groans into his arms, but complies and wobbles up as well. "What time is it?" He mumbles.

Netherlands doesn't turn around. "Just before dawn."

"How come we have to leave so early?"

"Because."

Denmark frowns and helps Peter into his coat. "You're acting weird."

"It's early. I want a smoke."

Denmark zips Peter up and grins. "Well, before we head out, I've got something for you."

He starts to reach into his pocket but Netherlands cuts him off. "Later." He finally turns around. "You ready yet?"

Denmark's smile falters. "Right. Later then." He coughs. "Yeah, we're ready." He eyes Jan's empty hands. "You aren't bringing anything?"

"No."

"Not even food?"

"Don't have a bag to bring it in."

"Man, we can make you a bag. You've got all these boxes-"

"Mathias." Netherlands shoots him a hard stare. "I'm not bringing anything."

Peter pauses in lacing up his boots just in time to catch the tense silence that hangs between them before Jan turns back to the ladder and spits out the split remains of the straw.

"Now hurry up."

Denmark shakes his head and picks up Peter's backpack. "It's full of cans, so I'll carry it for now," he says. He checks to make sure that Peter has his goggles around his neck and goes through their bag one last time, counting their belongings, and flashes him a thumbs up. "Ready. You got everything?"

Peter nods. "You aren't wearing the mask."

"I'll put it on once we get going."

"Okay."

They join Netherlands at the base of the ladder and he begins to climb it. "I'll go up first." He nods at Peter. "You go next so I can help you out after I say it's all right, got it?"

"Got it."

"Good." He begins the climb at a swift pace and soon disappears out of the hatch, calling down to him a moment later. "Okay, Peter, head up." He pauses. "Hey, I forgot the flashlight. Can you grab it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Denmark turns to retrieve it while Peter starts up the ladder. It takes him a moment to find it; it isn't in its usual place. He clips it to his belt loop and starts up to the surface as well. "Got it!" He calls up. He pauses halfway up the exit. "Anything else you forgot?"

Silence.

"Jan?"

He frowns.

"Peter?"

Nothing.

Something in him drops and he hauls himself up the ladder as fast as he can manage with the heavy pack of cans on his back and the rifle clattering against his side. Something isn't right. It's too quiet. He reaches the hatch and pulls himself through.

As soon as his feet hit the ground, something cold cuts through his blind spot and is jammed against the left side of his head.

"Don't move."

He freezes.

"Jan, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Stop talking."

Denmark turns his head just enough for the taller man to come into the sight of his good eye. He has one arm wrapped around Peter's neck, hand clamped hard around the boy's mouth, apparently oblivious to his terrified struggles, and his pistol pressed firmly against Denmark's temple. He forces him to take a step forward, dragging Sealand along, until they are standing in the center of the schoolyard beside an old merry-go-round, facing the woods.

"Hold still and don't say anything," he mutters. His voice belays no emotion. "If you try anything, I'll kill you both."

"Jan, what the fuck-"

The butt of the pistol whips across his face so hard that he spins in the other direction, barely able to catch himself before Netherlands' boot meets the small of his back and he falls face first into the ash. Peter shrieks from behind Jan's hand, but he is once again ignored in favor of kicking Denmark onto his back, the soles of his boots leaving ashy smears on the already dirty fabric of his chest. Netherlands whistles, so loud that it echoes in the drifting silence of the yard, and nudges Denmark onto his side with his foot.

"Get up. And don't talk."

Denmark only coughs. By the time he manages to get back on his feet, his cheek is already turning purple beneath a sluggish stream of red from his hairline and Peter is shaking hard enough that the only thing keeping him upright is Netherlands' elbow around his throat. Jan whistles again and this time, the sound is accompanied by shifting branches and footfalls. His face remains vacant as a small group of people emerge from the woods; humans, all of them, carrying thick chords of rope and all manner of sharp farming equipment.

One of the people, a stringy man with a cold face, steps forward in front of them all and claps. "I didn't think you'd do it."

"Shut up." Netherlands repositions the pistol back at Denmark's head. "Let me see her or I'm keeping them for myself."

The man grins. Even from his position several paces away, Peter can see that the few teeth he has left are yellow. Without looking away, he jerks his head and two other men appear out of the woods, dragging a struggling blonde dressed in tattered, tan fatigues with them, her hands and feet bound with the same heavy rope that many of the people carry, mouth forced shut with several strips of duct tape that go around her entire head. They lay her out on her stomach in front of them and she turns her mud-streaked face up to stare pleadingly at Jan.

Denmark's eyes widen.

"Belgium…?"

The pistol is again shoved against the back of his head. "Bel?" Netherlands calls out to her, a sliver of emotion finally working its way into his voice. He steps forward. "Bel, are you okay?"

"She's fine," the man answers for her. "Maybe a little worn out, but we didn't hurt her too bad." He grins again and it makes Peter sick. "Now let us have them."

Denmark's mouth falls open. "You unbelievable son of a bitch…" he chokes. "You're trading us?"

Netherlands shoves him forward. "I told you to stop talking." He grabs Peter by the back of his coat and pushes him into the arms of the man with the yellow teeth. At once, the man hauls him up by his hair and smiles right in his face, looking him up and down before passing him to another member of their party.

"He's the only one we really wanted alive. But we'll take the other one with us for later." Again, the sick grin. "Kill him," he nods at Denmark. "And you can have your sister back."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It is now."

Netherlands grits his teeth and grabs Denmark by the back of his neck and forces him to his knees, the muzzle of the pistol coming to rest on the crown of his head as soon as he's pitched forward.

"Denmark!" Peter screams. "Let him go! Denmark!"

Denmark rakes his hands through the dirt and chances a glance back at Jan. "Don't fucking do this. What are you doing?"

"I told you to shut up."

"No!" He cries. "What the fuck is this?"

He shoves him forward. "Stop talking, Den. Don't even try to tell me you wouldn't do the same if it was Norway or any of the rest of them."

"We could have helped you get her back. We could have-"

The gun cracks across his face again and he tips sideways into the ash. Peter struggles wildly in the hands of a stranger, screaming for him over and over again, and the whole band of humans begins to laugh amongst themselves as they watch Denmark struggle back to his knees.

"If you're really my friend, you'll let me do this." He grabs Denmark by the collar and pulls him upright again. "For her sake. Not mine."

Denmark spits blood into the dirt. "And what about his sake, huh?" He jerks his head at Peter. "What about my family?"

"He wouldn't have lasted out here anyway and you know it. Not with you taking care of him." His lips curl back. "Look at you. You can't see, can't run… can't even defend yourself. How the fuck are you going to take care of a little kid?"

"He's not a little kid."

Netherlands sneers. "Shut up."

Denmark finally manages to catch his breath and he digs his fingers into the ground. "So, what? That's it then? That's all? After everything, you're just going to sell us out to these fucking people?"

"Family comes first, Denmark. It always has."

Denmark spits again. "And you're such a fucking coward that you're going to shoot me from behind?" He twists his head back to glare at him. "Not even going to look me in the eye like a real fucking man?"

"Shut up."

"Coward."

"I said shut the fuck up, Den."

Denmark scoffs. He turns back to stare at Belgium, his eyes locking with hers. "Worthless fucker who can't even take care of his sister."

Netherlands boot comes up hard into his ribcage, knocking him clean off of the ground for a moment. He coughs, laughing, while he rolls over again.

"Don't worry, Peter," he calls when Peter screams for him again. "Everything is going to be just fine." He rolls over onto his knees and stares up at Netherlands. "This stupid fuck doesn't have the balls."

Netherlands pulls the hammer back.

Denmark doesn't give him the chance. He lunges forward into Jan's middle while he is still too furious to expect it and rams his fist into his jaw, flattening him to the ground and landing on top of him. The pistol flies from his hand and clatters into the space under the merry-go-round and Denmark is on his feet with his boot smashing into Netherlands' head before he can get his wits back, yanking the pistol up and firing it straight into the bellies of the two men who descend on him, too close to possibly miss, leaving only the three in front of him. They fall at his feet and he discards the empty pistol, whirling around to face the others, the rifle swinging to his hands and coming up to his shoulder, aimed straight for the man holding Peter.

"Let him go!" He shouts. "You give him back to me and you all go fucking disappear!"

Peter shrieks at the gun facing him and begins his struggles anew, twisting and crying and trying so desperately to wrench himself free. Denmark has blood streaming down the side of his face and all Peter can hear is Finland's cheerful voice inside his head.

"He's a piss poor shot."

The man with the yellow teeth begins to laugh. "I don't think so." He reaches behind his back and frees his own small gun from its holster. "We know all about your little depth perception problem. You won't shoot. Too risky. You might hit the kid."

"I said let him go. Now."

The man starts to lift his pistol. "I don't think-"

The rifle explodes and Peter is thrown violently forward, his face suddenly wet and hot when the man holding him jerks backward and collapses into the dirt. He doesn't have a chance to react. None of them do. Denmark takes advantage of the stunned silence and launches himself forward, grabbing Peter around the waist and hauling him up, tearing into the forest just as the man with the yellow teeth begins to scream obscenities and orders the one remaining man to follow them. Denmark doesn't turn around to see if he does.

Denmark drops him back to his feet as soon as they make it into the woods, but he is still too shell-shocked to make a clear connection between his legs and his brains and he stumbles, pulled along by Denmark's bolting strides, and it takes him more than one try before instinct finally kicks in and he grabs on to Denmark's sleeve and begins to run as fast as he possibly can, neither of them even trying to hide the noise they make as they flee. Leaves and sticks break under their feet and branches slap across them in stinging little lashes as the forest gets deeper and deeper.

He can't see anything. His eyes are too thick with something he is too terrified to identify.

Denmark yanks him sideways and they both go tumbling to the bottom of a deep ravine, coming to a stop in front of the charred remains of an old tree. The roots are above ground, bent and twisted and leaving an opening into the hollowed out trunk above them. He shoves Peter inside and follows him immediately after, his back pressed against him and his hands gripping the rifle, faced to the roots, shielding Peter from anything that may be outside. His breath is rough; wet and tight in fast wheezes, and his shoulders are shaking hard enough that the gun in his hands trembles against the black bark beside them.

Peter isn't sure how long they had been running, but he knows they haven't made it far. They can still hear the two gunshots that go off in the distance; one after the other, barely a beat between the them, two loud cracks that get lost in the ashen sky.

Two shots.

Two bullets.

Netherlands and Belgium.

They hold as still and silent as they can manage for several minutes, just listening. Peter can feel something sodden and warm slipping down the back of his neck and he has to clap his hands over his mouth to keep himself from screaming all over again when his mind starts to give him an idea of what exactly it could be; something that certainly doesn't belong to him. Something that belongs to the man in the clearing. He tries to distract himself by curling his fists into the back of Denmark's coat. Through the dim light, he can just barely make out his face. He's holding his breath but his chest keeps hitching, almost like a hiccup, and he has fresh blood dribbling out of his nose and between his clenched teeth, another episode brought on by too much hard running. He can hear it drip down the front of his jacket and onto the fraying straps of the backpack, tiny little plip plip sounds that should not be as apparent as they are in the stark, empty quiet that has cornered them in the woods.

No one ever comes.

Denmark pitches forward and vomits red into the dirt. He manages to aim away from Peter, but the twisted roots do little to hide the results as he holds himself bent at the waist on trembling arms and just coughs and coughs until he is only forcing wet heaves out of his chest, garbled sounds that mingle with the high pitched wheeze being strained through his teeth. Peter watches him. He watches him shake and gasp and cough up more and more, waiting for him to compose himself. He needs Denmark to compose himself because he has a stranger's blood and skin clinging to his back and he needs his help to get it off. He needs Denmark to compose himself because Denmark always composes himself.

It's only when each cough starts to come out with Jan's name that Peter realizes that Denmark is crying.

Somehow, that frightens him more than the bits of bone stuck to his coat.

A/N: "perkele" is actually sort of the Finnish equivalent to "fuck". I don't recommend using it to tell someone you love them.

WELL, I'm officially depressed. No new chapter of this tonight; I think I'm going to try and write some Ned/Den PWP instead. :|a

See you this weekend!